


So We Come to A Place of No Return

by apocryphalia



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: But we all know who he really wants, Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Porn with Feelings, Purple Prose, Reference to Geralt/Yennefer, Smut, Wall Slam, excessive use of metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22366240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocryphalia/pseuds/apocryphalia
Summary: Geralt stares up at the canopy of leaves above him, at the stars visible between the gaps, tiny pinpricks of light against the suffocating velvet blackness of the clear night sky. He stares into the blackness above him because he cannot find it behind his own eyes. Instead, he is haunted by visions of his own hands on hot skin, Jaskier laid out below him on a tavern bed so many months before. He had left the next morning, fleeing the shadows at the edges of his vision. He has not been able to sleep since.Why Geraltreallyhad insomnia, and what happened after the djinn.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 468





	So We Come to A Place of No Return

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from ["Monster" by Mumford and Sons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fmfit7BcGzE).

_They say that witchers can’t feel human emotion._

_They_ are wrong. Geralt knows this, deep in his bones, although he is loath to admit it even to himself. For nearly a century now, he has kept a tight lid on the things he isn’t supposed to feel, held them close with a practiced hand. ( _Don’t look, don’t see, don’t feel._ ) Sometimes one sneaks up on him, visible from the corner of his eye, like a shadow. ( _Just a bad dream. Turn your head and it will go away again_.) Geralt has gotten very good at keeping his poisoned eyes out of the shadows.

Somehow, though, the bard has gotten under his skin, settled himself somewhere inside Geralt’s flesh. In little more than a decade—a drop in the bucket to someone with his lifespan, or at least it should be—Jaskier has insinuated himself so thoroughly into Geralt’s life that the witcher finds himself at a loss when he leaves.

Geralt stares up at the canopy of leaves above him, at the stars visible between the gaps, tiny pinpricks of light against the suffocating velvet blackness of the clear night sky. He stares into the blackness above him because he cannot find it behind his own eyes. Instead, he is haunted by visions of his own hands on hot skin, Jaskier laid out below him on a tavern bed so many months before. He had left the next morning, fleeing the shadows at the edges of his vision. He has not been able to sleep since.

Geralt sighs, resigned to his fate, and reaches down to fumble with the ties of his trousers as he closes his eyes once more and allows the memories to rush in. He remembers the raw desire in Jaskier’s eyes as he stripped himself of his clothing, as the bard went to his knees before him. Geralt imagines that the fingers closed around him now are not his own, and he remembers the motions of Jaskier’s delicate musician’s hands, the way they had stroked him softly, and later, clung to his scarred skin with wicked fingers while Geralt fucked him senseless. He remembers the bard’s soft sigh as Geralt entered him, speechless for once, and his heady cry as he came. He remembers the softness of Jaskier's lips, tinged with the bitterness of ale. He remembers the tight heat of Jaskier surrounding him, the shadows massing in his peripheral vision as he drank in each sweet sound that escaped the mouth against his own, and he fucks his fist here under the stars until the blackness overtakes him.

He wakes early from a fitful sleep, cleans himself up in the river nearby, and climbs onto Roach's back, absently patting her neck as he urges her to start back along their path. They reach town just before sunset, and Geralt gratefully books a room in the local inn. Most nights, he is content with the ground under his back and the night sky above him, but he finds the luxury of a mattress occasionally welcome after a long journey.

Down in the dining room of the tavern, Geralt sets himself in a corner to nurse a pint of ale and listen to the whispers of the townsfolk. He rarely goes unnoticed for long these days, though, thanks to Jaskier, and he soon learns that the bard has also found his way to this town. He also hears tell of a djinn, trapped at the bottom of the river outside town, and this is how he finds himself on its banks the next morning with a fishing net.

* * *

“Geralt! Hello. What’s it been, months, years? What is time, anyway?” Geralt hears the familiar chatter of the bard approaching behind him, and his body lets go of a tension he had not realized it held. Shadows mass once more in the corners of his eyes, and he sets his shoulders, staring straight ahead. ( _Don’t look into the darkness and it can’t get you._ ) 

When Jaskier tears the seal out of the djinn’s amphora, Geralt very nearly pushes him up against the nearest tree. Tells him, nose to nose, his voice a low growl, _exactly_ how irritating he really is. Almost allows Jaskier to close the scant distance between them, as the witcher knows he would, and almost allows his own hands to tear at the bard’s clothes, to keep him pinned as he indulges all the secret desires that haunt him in the night.

Geralt stops himself, keeping those urges clutched tight to his chest with the near-ease of a century of practice behind him. He regrets it the moment he finally opens his mouth to halt Jaskier’s prattling on, and he watches in horror as the man’s mouth fills with blood, as his throat swells. ( _What have you done?_ the shadowswhisper. This is why witchers cannot feel emotion, cannot become attached. They destroy everything they lay their hands on, and the White Wolf is no exception.)

* * *

His chest is tight as they ride back to town. Something holds his heart in a voice grip, its every beat thundering wildly against the cage that holds it. Roach senses the urgency and does not need to be told to run hard and fast.

When at last they find the mage, Yennefer of Vengerberg, she sees through him instantly. Geralt feels the ice in his veins as she looks at him. He knows when he is being read. He makes a half-hearted attempt to block it, but he cannot bring himself to care in the face of Jaskier's impending death.

_Just a friend, I hope?_ They both know the answer to the question. Geralt says nothing. He stares straight ahead, past the shadows flickering in his peripheral vision.

“Fix it and I’ll pay you. Whatever the price.” There is steel in his golden eyes. He knows he is making a dangerous bet, that she could ask for anything in return, but it’s too late to care about that. The shadows are massing and his heart is still held in the cold grip of panic.

It’s not until much later, once Jaskier is awake and confirmed alive, that some of the tension begins to seep out of his body once more. He can hear the poorly-masked delight in his own voice when he finally sees the bard, and he clamps down tight on the feeling that wells in his chest.

Still, he shows his hand when he says it out loud. _She saved your life. I can’t let her die._ The shadows swirl around the edges of his vision, reaching long fingers toward his heart. There’s nothing to be done about it now. What he said is the truth, and he can’t turn his back on the one who saved his only—friend.

* * *

Yennefer knows the stories about his kind aren’t true. Geralt knows she does, because he felt her delve into the heart of him, drag her occult gaze over the things that live underneath his skin. But she must also know that she fascinates him, an illicit mage who took over a town where she should never have been and staged an orgy in its captive mayor’s home. She, too, is a creature of a sort, though not a monster that must fall under his sword. She, too, is a being transformed, and something in her also rebels at what she is _supposed to be_.

When she climbs atop him, Geralt does not protest. He has never objected to any warm body that wants him, after all. (Except one. The one he wants most, wants in a way he shouldn’t, the one who is, at that moment, outside watching the roof of the house go up in smoke— _Don’t look, don’t think, don’t feel. Turn your head away from the shadows._ ) 

* * *

When Geralt wakes, he knows what he is about to do. He knows that he will find Jaskier still nearby, and he does. The bard is perched on a rock outside the house, humming to himself as he idly strums his lute in the dim light. He glances up as Geralt approaches him, a small smile on his face, but his fingers do not cease their movement.

“Have fun in there?” Jaskier smirks up at him.

“You nearly got yourself killed,” is all Geralt says in response. He hauls Jaskier to his feet, pushes him back, back until they run into the stone wall of the mayor’s home. Geralt crowds against him, not stopping his movement until they are nose to nose, chest to chest, their lips a mere inch apart and the clouds of their breath mingling in the cool night air. “What were you thinking?” he growls against Jaskier’s hot mouth.

“I’m not sure that I was,” Jaskier whispers. “But if I were, perhaps I was thinking that this is where we’d end up.” Then, just as Geralt knew he would, the bard leans forward to close that inch, and his warm breath is in the witcher’s lungs, and his tongue is in his mouth. Geralt closes his eyes, allowing the shadows to close in, allowing his awareness to narrow only to the points where his body connects to Jaskier’s. He presses in closer to the man’s warmth, large hands splayed against his thin chest, keeping his back pressed to the stone. He feels Jaskier begin to grow against his thigh, and his own prick twitches in response.

“You’re an idiot,” Geralt tells him when at last they’re forced to break for air.

Jaskier hums, dipping his head down to mouth at his neck, although he is still pinned to the wall. “So they tell me.”

Geralt takes one hand off Jaskier’s chest to lift his head, now holding him lightly against the wall by the neck so he can’t take the initiative to do anything with that mouth he has not been told to do. He inadvertently catches the bard’s eye, finding an uncomfortably familiar expression visible there. 

( _I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me._

_And yet… here we are._ )

The shadows flicker once more at the edges of his vision. He allows them to stay this time, as he stares into Jaskier’s eyes and sees the reflection of a feeling he is not allowed to name. He moves like a man possessed, lunging forward to take Jaskier’s mouth once more in his own. It is desperate, artless, teeth knocking against teeth and Geralt’s tongue shoved roughly between the bard’s lips. Jaskier’s muffled moan reverberates through his whole body, now tense as the strings held fast on the bard’s lute. That sound cuts straight to his core, something within him vibrating in a silent song. He hauls Jaskier up once more with hands fisted in his shirt, between the open doublet, and together they tumble to the ground.

Somehow Jaskier ends up above him, silhouetted by moonlight, a dried leaf sticking out from his impossibly soft tuft of hair. His lips are already swollen from Geralt’s rough treatment, the bright red of a forbidden fruit, and damned if the witcher isn’t somehow more aroused by the sight of this idiotic, frustrating, chattering bard than he’s ever been by a woman. 

“Remind me to find myself in mortal peril more often, if this is the reward I get,” Jaskier says, smirking down at him.

Geralt snarls wordlessly, dragging him down and rolling to pin Jaskier beneath his thighs. “Don’t you _dare_ do something so _stupid_ ever again.”

“You’re not getting any more convincing,” Jaskier replies, but Geralt notes with satisfaction that his voice has become weaker, breathy with desire.

When their lips meet again, it sets off sparks behind his eyelids, and gods, how had he waited so long to do this again after the first time? Geralt shoves his tongue roughly into Jaskier’s mouth, licking into it as though he could hollow him out, extract everything of the bard and swallow it down. As if he could hoard it somewhere inside himself like a dragon’s treasure, to be brought out on lonely nights when only the shadows keep him company.

Geralt’s fingers find their way down to the laces of Jaskier’s trousers, nearly ripping them out in his haste to reach what lies underneath. He takes the bard firmly in hand, no patience left to build up to what he so desperately needs. Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind, his hips instantly bucking up in search of more contact. He exhales against Geralt’s mouth, a soft _oh_ that nearly undoes him. The witcher drinks in the wordless vocalizations of his pleasure like a man who has found an oasis after weeks of wandering the desert with dust in his mouth. He sets a brutal pace with his palm wrapped around Jaskier’s cock, swiping over the head with his thumb to collect the drops already gathered there, and then bringing his fist up, down, and up again, feeling the slick under his rough-hewn fingers. Jaskier’s breathing is ragged under his hungry mouth. They are no longer kissing, but hovering a hair’s breadth apart, foreheads pressed together, Jaskier’s breath ghosting over his lips in quick, heavy bursts.

“Wait,” the bard croaks out, voice thin and reedy, nearly breathless. “Not yet, Geralt, don’t… I want you to fuck me.”

“Fuck.” Geralt’s hand involuntarily twitches tighter on Jaskier’s cock, drawing out a strangled yelp of pain and pleasure to which the witcher’s own arousal throbs in response. His hands find the waist of Jaskier’s trousers and tug them down to his ankles. The bard kicks them off over his boots while Geralt tears open the laces of his own.

Then, Jaskier’s hand finds his painfully hard cock as their mouths crash together once more, and the shadows are back, overtaking his vision. Geralt offers a hand to Jaskier’s lips when they break apart, and the bard sucks two fingers into his mouth with an expression of reverence and unbridled lust that flays Geralt open, leaves all his muscle and bone exposed to the night air. Jaskier’s tongue swirls soft and wet around his fingers, while his hand glides up and down the shaft of Geralt’s cock. The bard’s lightly calloused hands know how to play him just as well as the strings of his lute. He uses just the right amount of pressure, setting a steady pace that keeps Geralt balanced on a knife’s edge, just this side of too much and just short of enough.

Eventually, Jaskier pulls off his fingers with a truly obscene smack of his lips, and Geralt comes back to his senses enough to reach below him, pressing those same fingers against his opening. Jaskier gasps softly as he pushes inside, fingers slick from the bard’s own tongue. He draws his hand out and then slams it back in again, crooks his finger until Jaskier’s breath hitches and a loud groan escapes his mouth that lets Geralt know he has found _that_ spot inside of him. He watches with fascination as the bard writhes below him, his leaking cock straining up toward the stars. He rocks his fingers in and out until Jaskier’s thighs begin to shake, until he knows that the other man won’t last much longer, and then he withdraws. He replaces his hand with the slick head of his own cock, and begins to push inside.

Jaskier tenses around him, sending sharp waves of pleasure all the way up Geralt’s spine. He works his way in agonizingly slowly, and watches as Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut, his lips parted in a silent expression of euphoria. Geralt stops for a moment once he is fully buried inside Jaskier’s body, and then he pulls out to the tip and slams himself back inside. Jaskier cries out into the night, startling a bird out of a nearby tree with a loud squawk. Geralt’s butcher’s fingers hold him tightly by the knees, rutting into him without a trace of self-control, and Jaskier’s hips rock against him as best they can while he is pinned this way, meeting him thrust for thrust. Soon, too soon, Geralt feels the pressure begin to build at the base of his spine, and Jaskier is keening softly below him, and then the bard clenches around him as he finds his own release, and Geralt is sent careening over the edge after him.

He flops onto his back, down on the ground next to Jaskier, and gathers up the scraps of his ragged breath. He hears Jaskier beside him, similarly affected, and he closes his eyes and listens as together, their breathing slows and returns to normal. They right their clothing and lie there in the grass for a long moment of blessed silence.

“Well, that was… _whoo._ ” Jaskier huffs out an appreciative breath and chuckles softly.

Geralt rolls onto his side and levels an exasperated look toward him. “Will you shut up, for once in your life?” There is an edge of laughter underneath the words, a hint of the blinding fondness it should not be possible for him to feel. He idly hopes Jaskier misses the undercurrent of his words, although he knows he won’t.

“Nah, I think I like it better when _you_ shut me up,” the bard replies, flashing him a cheeky grin.

Geralt stares at him for a moment, impassive, and then rolls over onto his back once more. “Maybe later. I’m trying to sleep.”

“Oh, am I boring you? Didn’t you just wake up before you came out here to fuck me into the ground?”

“Jaskier… shut up.” The witcher smirks softly to himself as he closes his eyes to the moonlight, a gentle breeze ruffling the grass around him. Something like contentment swells up in his chest.

His dreams are full of soft hands and red lips, steady fingers on the strings of a lute. The shadows lurk nearby, ready to crowd him once more come sunrise. ( _Don’t look, don’t feel. Wait. Maybe someday their sharp fingers will soften. Maybe someday they can come to stay._

_Today is not that day. Don’t look into the darkness._ )

**Author's Note:**

> I’m also on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/apocryphalia) and [Tumblr](http://apocryphalia.tumblr.com), where I do a lot of yelling about Good Omens and now this damn show. Come say hi, if you like.


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